


It Has Damned Us All

by masulevin



Series: Gifts & Giveaways [3]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, I'm Sorry, Red Templar Cullen, Red Templars, Templars, Therinfal Redoubt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-20
Updated: 2017-01-20
Packaged: 2018-09-18 19:30:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9399824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/masulevin/pseuds/masulevin
Summary: Cullen turns down Cassandra's offer to leave the Templar Order and lead the Inquisition's army. He doesn't want to leave his men behind, doesn't want to abandon them to their fates in Kirkwall. He doesn't know he's sealing his own fate in the process.Part of a trade forpataflanon tumblr.





	

He turns down her offer.

He can’t leave Kirkwall like this, with blood mages and abominations still running wild in the wake of Anders’ attack on the Chantry. The templars are still rebuilding in the city, and he’s the only high-ranking officer still alive.

If he leaves, who will take over? Many of the templars still in the city are too cruel, sympathizers to Meredith even in her madness. If he abandons Kirkwall, he won’t be able to protect its citizens or its mages.

And he does want to protect its mages.

Even after all of this, after yet another attack by a mage, he can’t turn around and blame all mages any longer. So many in the Gallows simply cowered under Meredith’s assault. They didn’t turn to blood magic to defend themselves, they didn’t summon demons to fight the templars.

They just… gave up.

When he was a child, before he knew anything about the Order, all he wanted to do was protect people. Being a templar seemed like the best way to do that. It would give him the abilities he needed, the training he wanted, to be a warrior and a protector.

A savior.

Kinloch Hold changed him, made him less than he wanted to be. Too long has he allowed his hate and fear rule him. Meredith took that and made it more, made it worse, deepened it until it consumed him and he could barely even look at a mage without white-hot rage filling his vision.

It helped him hunt down abominations around Kirkwall. It did not help him protect the mages in the Gallows.

One of the tranquil arrives at Cullen’s office door with his daily draught of lyrium, dipping her head respectfully. She still has a scar across the right side of her face from the fighting, a wound left too long before a mage healed it. He frowns slightly, but takes the lyrium from her.

She disappears from the room as he stares at the blue liquid. He can feel it, even through the glass, and he hates it. He hates being tied to it,  _ hates  _ how it could be used against him should he anger a superior.

He’s the Knight-Commander now. He’ll never tug the lyrium leash of one of his templars.

He tilts his head back and downs the draught in one swallow, the metallic taste making his eyes sting. It tastes like home, like duty, like he should never have considered stopping it in the first place.

\---

The Gallows is almost rebuilt. It’s still mostly empty, but some mages have returned to help. Bethany Hawke has returned as well, though Cullen was certain she would leave Kirkwall with her older sister. 

Maybe he’s been wrong about the Hawkes all this time.

He stands outside of the tower, and if he doesn’t look at the statue of Meredith in the courtyard, he can almost pretend like everything’s perfect. He can pretend that the attack didn’t happen, that he’s just been promoted to Knight-Commander because of his skill and dedication and not because no one else was able to take the position.

It’s difficult to remember why he’s here, why he’s in charge of a whole city’s worth of templars and mages. It’s difficult because the lyrium makes his mind fuzzy, little details disappearing into the blue haze. 

He was afraid this would happen. There were whispers, of course, of templars who grew too infirm to do their jobs anymore, who were shipped off to easy Circles where they wouldn’t be expected to actually fight or supervise or do anything more than stay alive.

He always thought that it was because they just grew too old. The idea that it might be the  _ lyrium _ …

The tranquil arrives with his daily draught. 

He forgets why he was upset in the first place. He doesn’t need to be standing in the courtyard. He has paperwork to do. Mages to supervise. Recruits to train.

\---

“Lord Seeker Lucius!” Cullen stands quickly, nearly tipping his chair back in the process, and salutes the man standing before him. The Lord Seeker greets Cullen with a grim smile, the exposed skin from his receding hairline glimmering in the candlelight as he sits. 

Cullen sits back down, trying to tidy his workspace by stacking reports on top of each other, capping his inkwell, and straightening the quills scattered over the desktop.

Lucius smile stays cold as he says, “Knight-Commander. You may relax. This is more of a... social visit than business.” Cullen’s shoulders relax only a fraction, his deference to the Seekers embedded in him since he was a recruit. “You have done a good job in Kirkwall since that unpleasantness with the apostate abomination.”

“Thank you, Ser.” Cullen doesn’t know how to react. He doesn’t feel like he’s done anything special in Kirkwall. His templars have helped rebuild some of the city, but it isn’t enough. It will likely never be enough.

“I hope the restoration efforts have been going well,” Lucius continues, his tone conversational. Cullen blinks, his only outward showing of surprise, and nods. Lucius’ little smile grows wider, showing more teeth. “Excellent. You’ve had no more trouble with the local chantry?”

Cullen shakes his head, and it’s like the motion shakes something free in his brain. He leans forward, placing his elbows on his desk, and resists the urge to rub his forehead. “There have been no problems, Lord Seeker. If you’ll allow--”

“Good.” Lucius raises his voice slightly to cut Cullen off, and Cullen bites his tongue to silence himself. “Knight-Commander, I’ve brought a new form of lyrium I would like you to try. It can replace your daily doses, for now.”

“New lyrium?” Cullen wants to tilt his head to the side, run his hands through his hair, but he doesn’t. He must look in control in front of the Lord Seeker, if no one else. The Seekers of Truth must never know that he’s been plagued with migraines, memory loss, disorientation.

They’ll replace him with someone who won’t be as kind to the mages. Kirkwall can’t handle that, not now. Not after everything.

Lucius nods. “It’s more… potent, it will enable you to take less and still feel the same benefit.” He pauses, studying the shadows under Cullen’s eyes, the written reminders still scattered over his desk. “There will be fewer  _ negative _ effects, as well.”

The tranquil appears in the door, pauses to salute Cullen, and passes him a vial of lyrium.

Except it doesn’t look the same. It’s a smaller bottle, the liquid inside a red color instead of its usual blue. It… still sounds like lyrium, but  _ more _ , somehow. He isn’t sure what to make of it.

His body wants it. His mouth waters, his headache immediately worsens, his thumb traces the edge of the stopper before he realizes it’s made the decision.

His mind, though… “It’s red.”

Lucius raises one eyebrow. “It’s part of the alchemical process to make it stronger. Helps keep it separate, nothing more.”

Cullen nods and pops the cork out of the bottle.

The moment the lyrium touches his tongue, his body relaxes. Did he think it sounded wrong? Nothing’s ever sounded  _ more right.  _ The metallic tang of it is perfection, bliss. His headache disappears, the tense muscles in his back and shoulders relax completely until he nearly slumps over. When he opens his eyes, his vision seems to be more clear than it was a moment ago.

Lucius smile seems real now, stretched almost to the point of pain across his face.

“Perfect.”

\---

The templars are heading to Therinfal Redoubt. It’s a long way from Kirkwall, but the Lord Seeker sent a missive ordering Cullen to join them there. He pulls the templars still in Kirkwall together and they leave the city as one, buying out a whole ship and traveling together across the waking sea.

They day they are to arrive at the fortress, the lyrium runs out. They’re all on the red stuff now, the other templars having abandoned them once the Conclave was destroyed, and the lack of more red lyrium makes Cullen’s skin crawl. He doesn’t like being without a backup. What if something happens and they’re delayed?

He urges the men still in his command to a faster speed, pushing them until they arrive at Therinfal several hours earlier than they were expected. They’re greeted by the templars already there, shown to their rooms and told when they’ll receive their next draught of lyrium.

They try to separate Cullen’s men by who’s on the red and who’s on the blue.

Lord Seeker Lucius claps Cullen on the back when he realizes all Cullen’s men are on the red. He’s done a better job than the other Knight-Commanders in converting his men.

All of the Knight-Captains have been converted, but many of the Knight-Templars are lagging behind.

Cullen has done a good job.

He looks Lucius in his eyes and smiles.

\---

Cullen wakes early, earlier than usual. His skin is crawling, his mouth dry. He needs his daily draught, but if he’s honest it’s becoming more than daily. It seems like every day he wants it earlier, or he wants more.

The red was supposed to make him better, not worse.

Even the thought of switching back from the red to the blue makes his head pound and his stomach church. The thought of not taking lyrium at all?

He shudders to think of it, literally shivers, gooseflesh breaking out over his skin.

He can’t go back to sleep, so he stands and walks in tight circles around his room. It’s larger than the one his soldiers are sharing, one fit for a Commander, but it still makes him feel trapped. He pulls his trousers on with the intention of leaving his room, but he stops with one hand on the door and sighs.

His head feels heavy on his shoulders, and he brings his free hand up to his face. His fingers scratch through a week’s worth of scruff, rasping unpleasantly, and he realizes he should probably shave before he leaves his room. Shave and dress, put his armor back on, sharpen his sword.

Just because he’s anxious doesn’t mean he can forget his position. He’s one of the highest ranking templars here. He needs to put his best foot forward, as his mother used to say. Show the younger templars what they have to look forward to becoming.

He steps to the small dressing table and peers into the mirror perched on top. He has to blink hard to clear his vision as he stares into the bright square, and he scrubs his fingers across his eyes before working up a lather to shave his beard.

He tries to watch his movements as he works, but his eyes are constantly drawn back to themselves in the mirror. He didn’t realize he’s so tired--his eyes are bloodshot and red-rimmed, looking for all the world like he hasn’t slept in weeks. The shadows under his eyes are deep, his face gaunt under the scraggly beard.

Shaving is methodical, relaxing, and by the time he splashes off his face he feels a little calmer. He leans closer to the mirror to check on his eyes--when he was just a recruit, he burst a vessel in one of his eyes and the white had been blood red for weeks. He doesn’t remember that happening to him, but maybe…

No. It isn’t the same dark red as blood. It’s lighter, almost reflective. It reminds him of…

Impossible.

A knock at the door makes him jump, and he turns to open it quickly. One of the Knight-Captains who greeted him the day before is standing there, a vial of red lyrium in his hands. It’s a little larger than the ones Cullen’s been taking, and he immediately reaches for it.

He doesn’t even question why it’s bigger, why it’s earlier in the day, or why this man is delivering it.

He just pops the top off of the vial and downs it.

It makes the buzzing under his skin go away.

He is content.

\---

“The Herald! The Herald of Andraste is here!”

Cullen turns completely to see who’s speaking, but doesn’t see the messenger through the throng of moving templars. They’re scattering, some going to see the Herald in person, but most disappearing into the fortress to get away from her.

She’s here to gather templars to help her seal the Breach, Cullen knows that well enough. Not all of the templars think this is a good idea, siding with the heretic who killed the Divine. 

Cullen isn’t sure what to think. Maybe she killed the Divine, but maybe she didn’t. Maybe she really is just an accident of circumstance, and aren’t templars supposed to defeat magic turned against man? That’s what the breach  _ is _ , more than anything else.

Magic turned against man.

So he follows the templars down to the courtyard, seeking the Herald out. There’s already a crowd of nobles and templars milling about in the courtyard when he finds his way there, and he stands near the wall to watch.

When the Herald finally appears, he almost doesn’t notice her. She’s small, an elf of all things, and it’s hard to see her through the crowd, but as the sun breaks through the clouds to fall on her golden hair, he feels his heart tighten in his chest.

She turns, then, and the motion moves her hair to the side and exposes the delicate point of her ear. Her golden eyes search the gathered crowd and for one heart-stopping moment, Cullen thinks she’s seen him. 

But she turns away from him, looking back at the templar leading her through the courtyard. Cullen recognizes him, vaguely, as Delrin Barris. He knows the man from somewhere, but it’s been long enough since his morning dose of the red that he’s beginning to go fuzzy again, so he just shakes his head.

He follows at a distance, watching as she acquiesces to the Lord Seeker’s inane flag ritual. Cullen can see her trying to decide whether or not it’s a good idea, but a taller blond human whispers into her ear, and she nods decisively.

When she disappears into one of the fortress’ inner rooms, Cullen only hesitates a moment before following. Most of the nobles she brought with her are staying out in the courtyard, complaining about everything they can think of to be offended by, so the Herald is only with her companions and Barris.

Not that Cullen thinks she’s in trouble, certainly. But backup with the Lord Seeker couldn’t hurt. And the Lucius likes Cullen, doesn’t he? He always seems pleased with what Cullen is doing, proud of his progress. Maybe he’ll listen when Cullen sides with the Herald to help close the Breach.

He slips into the little room behind them, standing against the back wall with the other templars. This close, he can see more clearly the Herald and her companions. The human man, blond like the Herald, is standing almost too close to her, his hands resting uneasily on his sword.

Cullen glances around the room, but the Lord Seeker is nowhere to be found. Isn’t he supposed to meet with the Herald? She did his ritual, so surely…

Somehow the noble following them around goads the even-tempered Barris into a disagreement, and Cullen narrows his eyes at the display. He doesn’t disagree with Barris’ words, and the noble certainly should be deferring to the Herald… shouldn’t he?

And why is Barris in charge of showing the Inquisition around Therinfal Redoubt when there are more senior officers ready and available? If the Lord Seeker is intending to help seal the Breach, shouldn’t the Inquisition and the Herald be given the highest honor possible?

Cullen’s skin starts to itch again. Not like something is irritating him from the outside, more like something on the inside is trying to get out. It’s uncomfortable, and it hurts, and suddenly his tongue is dry and thick in his mouth for want of the red. He shifts in his armor, the metal clinking quietly, and the templar next to him sends him a scathing look to be silent.

He bristles at this. Who does this knight think he is, looking at the Knight-Commander of Kirkwall like that? Cullen easily outranks him several times over, even if they’re not in Kirkwall. If he were in Cullen’s command, he’d be stuck with the least pleasant duty available under Cullen’s control for such insubordination.

But he isn’t. They’re both under the Lord Seeker’s command, and… where is he?

Ignoring the impertinent knight next to him, Cullen shifts again. The strange itchy, buzzing feeling is growing louder now. It’s overpowering most conscious thought, other than  _ something is wrong.  _ He feels that in his gut, under the strange sensations filling his body, and his breathing starts to come fast and shallow. 

The doors slam open and Knight-Captain Denam strolls in, flanked by several other knights Cullen barely recognizes. Denam has been the Lord Seeker’s right-hand man since before Cullen arrived, despite being of a lower position, and Cullen didn’t think to fight it.

Now he wishes he had as the buzz grows into an anxious screaming in his mind, his body tensed and ready to spring into action under any slight provocation. He looks over the Herald’s companions, searching for a mage, but he doesn’t see one, so he lets the Purge he was gathering die in his palm. He urges the lyrium that powered the Purge to settle back under his skin, in his blood where it belongs, but it just joins the  _ wrongness  _ that covers him.

His eyes start to water as the pain grows.

_ Wrong. _

_ Wrong wrong wrong. _

He doesn’t hear what Denam says, but he does see the attack as it begins. A nearby templar archer sends an arrow through the chattering noble’s throat, dropping the man to the ground like a stone. Cullen takes a step back even as his body is screaming to leap forward, to defend his people as they start to attack the Inquisition and Barris.

Something’s separating Barris from the rest of the templars, and as Cullen falls to his knees he feels the wrongness in his body expand, growing uncontrollable. He rips his helmet off and drops it to the ground, clutching at his head as it begins to pound.

The fighting goes on around him, loud in the little room. He ignores it as he claws at his skin with his gloved hands, desperate to find out  _ what’s wrong. _

His body wants to fight.

His mind wants to flee.

He settles for kneeling among the dropping bodies of his brothers, remembering how this very same thing happened just ten years before. He remembers the last time he knelt instead of fighting or running, trapped in Uldred’s prison at the base of the Harrowing Chamber in Kinloch. His brothers turned on each other then, too, leaving him as one of the only survivors.

This can’t happen today.

He stands and draws his sword, ready to help the Inquisition as far as he can, but he’s stopped before he can move the sword more than a few inches out of its sheath.

The Herald is staring at him, an arrow pointed at his throat from just too far away for him to defend himself. A movement that he can hear but not see, and a blade is at his throat. He feels the sharp prick of his skin being pierced, and a hot drop of blood slides down his heated skin and soaks into the padding under his armor.

“Drop your weapon,  _ Knight-Commander. _ ” This from Barris, the man on the other end of the blade cutting into Cullen’s throat. He obeys, raising his hands to show he means no harm. “What shall we do with him, my lady?”

The Herald barely spares him a glance, keeping her eyes trained on Cullen.

“You did not fight,” she says, and her voice nearly makes Cullen tremble.

“No.” It’s all he can say. His throat and neck hurt, one from the lack of lyrium and one from Barris’ blade. He desperately wants to explain to this woman what happened, to ask her what she knows, to have an explanation for himself, but he stays silent.

She nods. “Where is the Lord Seeker?”

“He may be in the main part of the keep. There is another courtyard out those doors,” he points slightly, indicating the doors behind her, “that leads to where he usually is.”

She narrows her eyes and considers him for a long moment. That man leans in and murmurs something to her, and she flicks her eyes up at him before nodding.

She looks at Barris. “Take away his weapons and restrain him. Once we find the Lord Seeker, we’ll decide what to do.”

\---

No one speaks directly to him, but he can piece together enough information to find out what happened.

The Lord Seeker… wasn’t the Lord Seeker. He… IT was an envy demon masquerading in the Lord Seeker’s body. How long has it been like that? Was it truly Lucius who came to Kirkwall to meet Cullen, or was that the envy demon as well?

How could he have not noticed that he was speaking to a literal demon? Aren’t templars trained to see these sorts of things?

But then… why would he suspect a Seeker as a demon? They’re immune to possession, to becoming abominations. This should have been impossible.

Cullen is stripped of his weapons and armor, bound at the hands and placed on a horse, heavily guarded should he decide to attack the Herald. She stays far away from him, leaving him behind with the templars. 

Not the templars who were on the red. The templars who were still taking the blue lyrium from the Chantry. He didn’t even know anyone was still taking the blue before he arrived in Therinfal. He thought the Lord Seeker had moved everyone over.

He isn’t Knight-Commander anymore. The Templar Order is disbanded; they no longer exist. But these men, his former brothers, look at him with a hate and derision he never would have expected. 

He was one of the first on the red, they whisper. He was one of Lucius’ pets. He knew what the plan was when the Herald arrived. He wanted to kill the templars who hadn’t changed.

But he didn’t. Did he? 

His blood burns in his body, setting his head pounding and his stomach roiling. Every action, every step toward Haven feels absolutely wrong. He shouldn’t be with the Herald, his body says, he should be… he doesn’t know where he should be, his mind protests and wants to follow his captors, but his body seems to want to head back north.

It’s like something’s calling him.

Something’s pulling him away, and he’s nearly powerless to resist.

His chest feels tight when they stop to rest. They need to hurry back to Haven, and no one wants to have to deal with him as a prisoner for longer than necessary. He’s tossed a bedroll, which he hastily sets up, and lays down on his back with his hands still bound. No one offers him food, but even if they had, he wouldn’t be able to eat. It’s taking all of his concentration to keep compliant, to keep from running off in the direction his chest is pulling him. 

Something isn’t right. Something’s wrong.

By the time dawn comes, he’s trembling and sweating. It’s like he has a fever, freezing cold and too hot by turns. His head pounds, his stomach rebels at even the thought of food, his chest constricts with each breath.

The Herald approaches him as the camp is packed up again. She stands just close enough to be able to see him, but far enough away that his guards will be able to stop him if he lunges for her.

She isn’t afraid, exactly, just wary. 

If Cullen’s body wasn’t trying to fall apart, he would hate the look in her eyes, but he can barely see it.

She hands something to his guard, who presents it to Cullen. It’s a vial of lyrium, a standard dose, but it’s  _ blue _ .

He glares at it. His body doesn’t want it. His mind tries to tell him it’s wrong, but… it’s the red that’s wrong. Not the blue.

He takes it, finally, staring into its luminescent depths for a long moment before drinking it down. The metallic taste bursts on his tongue, reminding him of how he used to be, the way he used to feel. It’s soothing, the song almost like something out of a pleasant memory, but it’s still wrong.

It barely soothes his aches or his chills, and the tightness in his chest doesn’t abate at all. When he looks up at the Herald, he can see her more clearly for a moment, and he stops breathing.

She’s gazing down at him with a serious expression, but her eyes aren’t full of hate like the templars surrounding him. They’re… pitying, sad, and he turns away from her, unable to bear the weight of her sympathy. He wants to lay back down on his bedroll, but someone’s already scooped it up, and he wouldn’t be able to sleep anyway, not without any more red in his system.

“Fi!” Cullen’s head jerks toward the sound, only to see the same man from the day before waiting for the Herald. Cullen looks back at her in time to see her lips part as she looks back at him, almost as though she wants to say something, but she snaps her jaw shut and shakes her head before leaving him alone.

He’s forced back up onto his horse, and the animal’s gait makes his stomach churn.

\---

They’re almost back at Haven when Cullen looks down at his bare chest and stomach for the first time since before the fight at Therinfal. Red veins swim in his clouded vision, snaking from his heart out to his arms, up to his neck and face, reaching out like tendrils of fire.

Each heartbeat makes the red veins pulse where they stand out on his skin, and when he touches them with one trembling hand he feels the heat radiating off of them.

He pulls his shirt back on quickly, abandoning the bath he was planning on taking.

Something is very wrong.

_ Wrong wrong wrong. _

\---

He’s still given a dose of lyrium every day in the little cells below Haven’s chantry, but he can hear the mutterings of his guards. They don’t think he deserves the lyrium that could go to them. He is a traitor, as close to an abomination as a templar can become.

His eyes are already red, his vision constantly swimming. His body gives off a soft red glow in the darkness, and the templars can barely look at him when they come to bring him his lyrium or his food.

He barely eats. He drinks only enough water to drive back the blinding headache that always wants to claw its way through his skull, that makes him want to rip out his own eyes if only to escape from the pain for a moment.

The Herald comes to visit him, dressed much the same as she had been when she first entered Therinfal Redoubt. She has a torch with her, but when she sees the way the light hurts his eyes, she moves it away from him.

She sits on the floor in front of his cell, crossing her legs under her until she’s comfortable.

Cullen just watches her from the back of his cell where his bedroll rests against the wall. His untouched dinner sits next to him, and she looks at it with a frown before speaking.

“They tell me you won’t eat.”

He clenches his jaw against the sound of her voice, lightly accented elven that’s too beautiful for him to hear. He turns away, unwilling to speak to her, but she doesn’t leave.

She takes a deep breath instead, hesitating before asking her next question: “Does the red lyrium still pain you?”

He freezes, then turns slowly to look at her again. His eyes trace the curving branch tattoos on her cheekbones, the layer of freckles over her pale skin, the light hair tied up out of her face. Her eyebrows have pulled together, and she’s pulled her lower lip into her mouth to bite down on it.

He doesn’t know how to answer.

“It is… part of me, now. As the blue once was.” His voice is deep, gravelly from disuse and retching up what little he does force himself to eat. He looks away from her again, unable to bear the flash in her eyes at his words.

She leans forward, raising one hand as though to reach through the bars toward him, but she thinks better of it and replaces her hand in her lap. “Did you know what would happen when you started taking red lyrium? Did you know what it was?”

Cullen shakes his head and covers his face with one hand, wincing at the pain shooting through his skull. The motion pulls up at his tattered tunic, exposing his lower ribs to her, and she has to smother her gasp.

The red of the corrupted lyrium in his body has only grown since they’ve stopped giving it to him, and she can clearly see the veins glowing under his skin.

“I only knew that the order came from the Lord Seeker,” he forces out between his clenched teeth. “I took it. I gave it to my men. I have... it has damned us all.”

The Herald does sigh, then, a sad little sound that echoes through the cells. “You didn’t know.” She waits, but he doesn’t turn to look at her. He can’t bear to see someone so holy, so beautiful, the chosen of Andraste when he’s in such a state. He doesn’t deserve to have her attention on him. He only deserves to be left to the red lyrium and have it run its course.

A quiet shuffling sound fills his ears, and when he finally peeks through parted fingers, he sees the Herald kneeling on the stone floor before his door. Her hands are gripping the bars that separate them, ignoring the very real danger of being so close to him. To a red templar.

“Perhaps we can increase your lyrium dosage, and the red stuff will be… pushed out?” She ends her idea in a question, tilting her head to the side as she thinks. A lock of hair slips free and hits her cheek, and Cullen watches the strands move as though he’s never seen anything more beautiful.

Maybe he never has.

“Herald, you don’t und--”

“Fi’laëwel.” He stops mid-word as she interrupts him, staring with jaw slack at her. She grimaces and tries again. “My name is Fi’laëwel, not Herald. Please… just call me Fi.”

He shakes his head, hard. He cannot. He could never. “I am already lost.”

She frowns and moves as though to rattle the bars on his cage, but the firm iron doesn’t budge under her attentions. “No. There must be a way!” Her voice rises with her temper, and Cullen growls from deep in his chest before throwing himself across the little cell.

She jumps back, pressing against the opposite wall as his large hands wrap around the bars where she had been pressed just a moment before. His face is so close to her now that he isn’t hiding from her gaze, she can see the hazy aura of the red lyrium surrounding him, a sickly red glow emanating from his eyes.

The scarred corner of his mouth lifts in a snarl, but he makes no move to touch her. He stays within the confines of his cell, obedient even to the last. “The lyrium has taken me,” he yells, the sound of his voice echoing around the dungeon. “It is too late. I can’t… I do not even remember…” 

His anger begins to fade as his confession stalls on his tongue. He doesn’t remember being a templar before the red. He can’t remember what it’s like not to live without its song in his mind. It’s worked its way into his very soul, corrupting and holding him fast. It’s changing him to become more like  _ it,  _ and he can’t even bring up enough anger at it to mind.

Slowly, Fi closes the distance between them. Her hands are shaking, but her shoulders are squared and her chin is lifted high. She reaches for him and he pulls back just enough to make her pause.

“Leave me,” he whispers, he  _ begs.  _ “Leave me.”

Fi shakes her head and reaches through the bars to touch his cheek. He turns into the light pressure of her hand, the first time anyone has touched him in kindness in…

He doesn’t know.

“Leave me,” he pleads, opening red eyes to stare into her golden ones.

She shakes her head. “No.”


End file.
